


Armistace

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Inline with canon, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27500287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "At first it was disbelief that urged him to action, a scoffing amusement at the very idea that Tezuka might persist in his stated goal of a tennis match in the face of Fuji offering an easier path to satisfaction; but when Tezuka stayed firm Fuji’s disbelief altered, remaking itself into a respect that has come to dominate the strange, delicate balance of what exists between himself and Tezuka." The aftermath of playing Hyotei brings a surrender Fuji didn't look for.
Relationships: Fuji Shuusuke/Tezuka Kunimitsu
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Armistace

Fuji doesn’t seek Tezuka out.

He gave that effort up months ago, when it became clear that his best attempts at persuasion would be met with nothing but the unwavering wall of Tezuka’s determined focus. Fuji has never met someone who resisted him so thoroughly, who rebuffed his every flirtatious suggestion with such absolute certainty; but then, Fuji has never known anyone like Tezuka.

At first it was disbelief that urged him to action, a scoffing amusement at the very idea that Tezuka might persist in his stated goal of a tennis match in the face of Fuji offering an easier path to satisfaction; but when Tezuka stayed firm Fuji’s disbelief altered, remaking itself into a respect that has come to dominate the strange, delicate balance of what exists between the two of them. Affection is an easy emotion for Fuji to find, tolerant amusement ready to hand even for those who declare themselves his opponents; respect is something so foreign that it leaves him adrift on the open sea of his usual relationships, left to steer himself by the fixed star of Tezuka’s own behavior. Fuji has looked to Tezuka’s actions to guide his own, in this one instance; and so when Tezuka held himself distant, Fuji bowed his head into surrender and followed suit.

He hasn’t broken that. They see each other at practice, of course, exist in the same sphere and speak to the same friends; but Fuji doesn’t push at the boundaries of Tezuka’s composure, even if he is perpetually aware of the other’s presence, even if he could lift a hand and point directly to Tezuka whether they’re running laps, or practicing serves, or in the middle of a tournament match. Fuji feels Tezuka like a force of gravity, a constant, aching pull at his attention; and he keeps his head turned, and his smile steady, and he holds himself as steadfast as Tezuka has taught him to be.

Fuji knew Tezuka would be coming tonight. Ouishi spent the last half hour of practice seizing on each of the regulars in turn to issue an invitation that is more of an insistence than a request, and Ouishi is more likely to forget Kikumaru than he is to leave Tezuka out of whatever he’s planning. The anticipation of Tezuka’s company outside the tennis club and off the practice courts has been shivering down Fuji’s spine all evening, holding his gaze lingering on his mirrored reflection and drawing him through twice as many changes of clothes as usual before he settled on something to wear. But he’s not expecting anything, even as he draws a brush through his hair to smooth it needlessly just before he leaves the house for the falling shadows of night, even as his stomach falls into an arc of adrenaline with the first glimpse of the dark silhouettes waiting at the park. Fuji is self-conscious with anticipation, aware of every motion of his shoulders and every tilt of his head; and he is sure, absolutely, that the most he will have from tonight is an offhand glimpse of Tezuka’s features, the occasional murmur of Tezuka’s voice speaking to someone else.

He’s not even there, at first. Fuji arrives early, the first of the third-years, so for the first few minutes his adrenaline spends itself in making conversation with Kaidou, who looks as tight-wound on anxiety as Fuji feels and sounds more of it, and Echizen, who musters some politeness and more boredom without Momoshiro’s casual cheer to draw him into conversation. Fuji is expecting Ouishi to arrive next and display the aggressive punctuality suited to the person who called them all to meet in the dark of fast-falling night, but when a handful of figures and a spill of familiar voices approach down the sidewalk Ouishi isn’t among them. Fuji can pick out Inui from his lanky height, can recognize Kikumaru’s burbling voice rising high and bright over the lull of the others’; and then his gaze lands on the form trailing at the back of the other four, silent and composed even far from any tennis court, and Fuji’s entire body goes taut with recognition before his mind has even caught hold of the name to match. Momoshiro lifts his arm to wave, to shout an unselfconscious greeting as Kaidou hunches himself into nervous expectation, and Fuji curves a smile onto his mouth and speaks words of general welcome while his attention clings to every detail of Tezuka’s presence.

Tezuka is standing behind the others. It’s clear they have arrived together, from the way Inui glances back to include Tezuka in his statements and the way Kawamura’s arm sweeps to carry Tezuka into the rambling story he is offering, but he offers no particular input of his own, and with his arms crossed and his chin lifted he could be back at the edge of the tennis courts judging the efficacy of their practice rather than attending a gathering of friends. Fuji stands to the side of Momoshiro and Echizen, where he won’t draw attention to himself, and lets himself drink in the satisfaction that comes with seeing Tezuka in something close to casual clothes.

He’s good to look at, as satisfying to watch as in those too-brief glimpses Fuji can claim while they’re in the middle of practice. The opportunity to gaze for long, lingering minutes under the cover offered by the darkness around them is an indulgence that aches in Fuji’s chest and soothes some tight-clenched want deep in his psyche. Fuji watches Tezuka from across the chatter of their teammates, tracing the sweep of his hair and the set of his mouth with the shadows to mask his focus; and then Tezuka turns his head, in the middle of Kawamura’s laughing apology for some mismade sushi, and his gaze finds Fuji’s.

Fuji feels it like an electric shock. It is impossible for Tezuka to see where he’s looking: the shadows offer disguise enough, and Fuji’s head is still turned to follow the spill of conversation while he looks at Tezuka sideways. But Tezuka looks straight at him, as if he can feel the weight of Fuji’s attention like a touch, and the force of their eyes meeting shudders straight down the length of Fuji’s spine. Fuji’s breath catches, his throat tightens on something nearly like guilt at being caught, but Tezuka doesn’t look away, and Fuji doesn’t either. They just stand still, gazing at each other across the chatter of easy conversation filling the space between them, and even with nearly the whole of their team around them Fuji feels the world fading out of importance, diminishing in his attention until Momoshiro’s peal of laughter is no more than a distant murmur, until the bright of Kikumaru’s hair is just another shadow in the dark around them. There is just Tezuka, solid and real and overpoweringly present, until Fuji’s own sense of himself begins to cave to the pressure, retreating back to fragmentary awareness of the pounding of his heart, and the tension at his fingers, and the shift of his blinking. Fuji holds Tezuka’s gaze, feeling himself separating into disjoint fragments of self-consciousness; and then, finally, a low voice says “Senpai,” and Fuji’s strained attention snaps to answer. 

It’s not directed at him. Kaidou is speaking from his tense position at the side of the main group, where his own self-consciousness has finally broken enough to let him volunteer speech. He has eyes only for Inui, who is turning to answer with a smile that is gentle even in its knowledge, but the distraction of his voice has broken Fuji free of the spell of Tezuka’s attention.

Fuji can still feel Tezuka’s gaze on him, fixing his every motion to self-consciousness under its weight, but he doesn’t look back. He keeps looking at the shadows, where Kaidou is hunching his shoulders to brace himself into an approach, and as Kaidou comes forward Fuji turns to step past him and take his place under the dark of the awning that offers shade at brighter times of day.

He tries to move casually, though he has no idea if he succeeds. His whole body feels distant, as if he is borrowing the use of his limbs and breath from someone else and must consciously control every simple aspect of existence and motion. If he draws attention no one speaks to it or calls after him, which is something of a relief in itself even before Fuji has cast whatever giveaway there may be in his expression in the cover of shadow. 

He had only intended to seek out the darkness, to grant the disguise of night to the adrenaline racing his heart in his chest and catching his breathing at the height of his throat, but once he has found the comfort of the overhang his feet urge him forward, carrying him past the edge of the dark and towards the promised support of a column at the far edge. It bears him still further from company, well out of the range of inclusion in the conversation flowing with such ease behind him, but there is a relief to the idea of solitude, even if only for a moment. Fuji’s knees are trembling, his body made weak by the force of his own directionless anticipation, and there is nothing he can think that would be such a comfort as a moment alone, to lean upon the support of something else and shut his eyes so he can breathe himself back to calm. He makes his way to the column, turns to press his shoulders to the solid resistance, and for a moment he can surrender himself, can duck his head and dip his lashes and breathe through the surge of adrenaline that was waiting for him in Tezuka’s eyes.

He hears the footsteps coming. It’s a soft sound, barely audible over the conversation tumbling between the others; but Fuji’s entire awareness has peaked to unprecedented heights, until he imagines he could sense the approach of the other without hearing at all, with nothing more than the shiver across his skin to announce him. Fuji stands still, not lifting his head to look as the footsteps draw nearer, crossing the distance from the others to where Fuji is standing, and he feels his pulse speeding in his throat until he thinks his heartbeat must be a palpable thing, a rhythm thrumming into the darkness around him as Tezuka comes to him.

Tezuka doesn’t speak, doesn’t wait for acknowledgment or even for Fuji to raise his head. Fuji listens to him approach, to the soft deliberation of Tezuka’s nearing footsteps, and as Tezuka draws close he steps to the other side of the column, taking up a position just around the corner from where Fuji is leaning with assumed ease to support his shaking legs. He turns, facing outward to gaze at the rest of the night-dark park, and Fuji works his throat to swallow and speaks in a murmured undertone.

“Tezuka.”

Tezuka doesn’t even hesitate. “Fuji.” His voice is level, as calm as if they are at practice, as if there is no trace of the electricity Fuji can feel crackling across the inches between them. 

Tezuka keeps himself apart, from everyone but most especially from Fuji, a fact that Fuji has resigned himself to after years of attempted persuasion to the contrary fell flat against Tezuka’s determination. He knows the condition for Tezuka’s approach, knows that all he has to do is say the word and he could be facing Tezuka across the span of a tennis court; and in his own silence he has accepted the distance between them as a necessary cost, a price to pay until he is ready to offer all of himself to the match and the change that would result. Fuji has grown accustomed to Tezuka’s distance, has acknowledged it as his own doing as much as Tezuka’s; to have it so suddenly crossed, by Tezuka himself, is more than he knows how to parse.

Fuji is taut with questions, curiosity and confusion chasing each other through his head:  _ why now, why here, how much? _ He parts his lips to draw a breath into his lungs, to brace himself against the precipice of inquiry; and beside him, around the corner of the column, Tezuka shifts to lean into the support at his back.

It is a tiny movement. If it were anyone else Fuji would hardly notice it, would discard the detail of his senses as quickly as he felt it. But Tezuka is unlike anyone else, and in the angle of his shoulders and the tilt of his head Fuji feels the pull of irresistible gravity upon his heart, drawing out of himself that it may find its way home. He imagines he can hear the rustle of Tezuka’s hair brushing at the column behind them, feel the shift upon his skin as Tezuka’s movement eddies a curl of air to brush against Fuji’s wrist, and as Fuji stares unseeing into the darkness of the park Tezuka exhales a sigh of relief for some endless burden at last set down. 

Fuji knows the sound of that breath, knows the feel of it dropping like a stone into clear water. It is the sound Tezuka made on the tournament court against Hyotei, the sound of a long-resisted surrender finally offered. Heat shudders through Fuji, coursing through his veins and trembling in his fingers, and when he leans into the support at his back it is an action of necessity more than choice, a capitulation demanded by the want that strips all the strength from his body and renders him too helplessly weak to do anything but rest his head at the support behind him, and close his eyes, and let Tezuka’s presence rush over him like the tide.

They do not speak. There is no word, no action, not so much as the shift of a hand to threaten the space between them, the distance still sustained, even now, in the face of a capitulation to years instead of hours of effort. But the night is still, and they are together; and Fuji listens to the sound of Tezuka’s breathing, and the catch of his own, and lets peace bridge the distance between them for the span of this stolen night.


End file.
